


Kill Me Twice (Or A Few Times More)

by ANervousBoysLife



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Pete Wentz's Suicide Attempt (Best Buy Incident), Polyamory, this was for fobcc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANervousBoysLife/pseuds/ANervousBoysLife
Summary: If Pete Wentz has done anything, he has fucking lived. He’s seen mountains taller than the sky itself, seen the crumbling depths of canyons, seen riches and poverty. He’s seen all that the universe has to show.If Pete Wentz has done anything, he’s died as well. Twice.--My entry to the May 2017Fall Out Boy Creations Contest.Based on the lyric: "And I lived so much life, lived so much life / I think that God is gonna have to kill me twice" from Young and Menace by Fall Out Boy





	Kill Me Twice (Or A Few Times More)

**Author's Note:**

> This could have been way better and way more detailed had it not been for AP testing. It was going to just be peterick at first, then i thought of the abundance of peterick and decided to write some polyfob, since there's never enough of it. 
> 
> This fic mainly follows real life events, but a large chunk has been changed for your enjoyment.

If Pete Wentz has done anything, he has fucking lived. He’s seen mountains taller than the sky itself, seen the crumbling depths of canyons, seen riches and poverty. He’s seen all that the universe has to show. 

If Pete Wentz has done anything, he’s died as well. Twice. 

The first time Pete Wentz died, he had been on top of the world, or so people had thought. Everything was coming his way. Money, fame, girls, the list goes on. Pete Wentz was king of the goddamn hill.

It all started much before then, though. The events leading up to Pete Wentz’s first death started long before. They started with the creation of a band, with the meeting of one person. Ever since then, Pete’s life had been chaotic, in ways both good and bad. He had been thrown into a spiral that was never-ending. It had many causes, but it was only his fault. 

The man who threw his world into disarray was a short boy. A short boy, who wore argyle socks.

Patrick Stump was the kind of person you couldn’t draw your eyes away from. He was also the kind of person to try and do everything in his power just to get your eyes to turn away. Despite all that, he was auditioning for Pete’s band. Well, Pete and Joe’s band. It was a shitty little start up they were making to try and create something _new_ and far, far away from the hardcore-turned-bigoted Chicago underground scene. 

Patrick insisted he was a drummer, but his spirit and pride lead him to take on Pete’s challenge. They needed a singer, and Pete had to know if this boy who could play every instrument known to man could sing. He could.

To Pete, his voice was a chorus of angels, shining down so bright on him he couldn’t even see the wire they were hanging from. Church play angels were much prettier than the real ones. Pete told him he had to sing. From then on, Patrick was a singer.

They recruited and re-recruited. The band was missing a few pieces between shows until finally one last member stuck. They had a permanent drummer: Andy Hurley. The well known vegan-straightedge who managed to balance out the band perfectly, both musically and socially. Together they produced their first real album, _Take This To Your Grave_. Shocking to almost everyone involved, it was kind of a hit. Suddenly, they were budding artists and going on tours outside of Illinois in a shitty van with no AC. They’d tossed in a bunch of random ingredients, mixed with passion, and threw in the oven the recipe for success.

Their fan base crawled out from the underground scene in Chicago, and they caught the eye of a growing record label. Fueled by Ramen had the resources to make them huge, and Pete saw no reason not to take it. With the signing of the new deal, they were on their way to stardom. First, another album, something that had to be a huge breakthrough with the band. It was all or nothing. Pete was in. They all were. 

The group was sent to a shitty housing building in LA, one full of washed out celebrities and up-and-comings. They had two rooms, and Pete practically begged to share a room with the amazing talent that was Patrick Stump. As usual, he got his way. They were the main components of the music, anyways. They scraped together the base, Joe and Andy added the perfect touches to make it _good_. It’s how they worked. From that shitty living quarters came their first big hit: _Sugar We’re Goin’ Down_. It was a huge shock to hear it playing on the radio within a couple of weeks. And it stayed there, more of their songs following it on the charts as the album dropped in full. 

They toured, still in their van. Somewhere along the line, they weren’t sure where, but they had earned enough to afford the luxury of a tour bus. There was almost a rush for the shower, everyone wanting to experience the novelty of it. They’d made it, they were making the big bucks. Now all they had to do was stay there. 

With the creation of their third studio album, they were told their careers were practically over. They were changing their sound, and that was a big **no** with the record companies. Who would have the audacity? Fall Out Boy, that’s who. They never backed down from a challenge, so they had to make it work. It was still for the sake of the music. They would never box themselves into one single sound. 

With the newfound fame, there was newfound struggle. The first time Pete Wentz died, all eyes were on him.

They were public celebrities now. Everyone knew them, and it seemed more people hated them than anything. At least, more people hated Pete. He was rebellious, off the wall, unpredictable. He didn’t follow the rules, and that’s why people didn’t like him. Little did they know (or maybe they did, had they _listened_ to the music?) that he was always listening. Every criticism was heard and every hateful comment was read. Externally, he’d raise a middle finger and keep the persona, but it hurt. And each time that middle finger had less fire behind it. Less fight.

Finally, the pressure hit its peak. Enough was enough. Patrick pressed him in the studio, arguing over one riff, one line, one lyric, one _anything_ and Pete was quite frankly over it. He’d stormed out, not looking behind him as he left. Of course, outside the studio there was always someone trying to catch photos to speculate about what they were doing. It was their lucky day, Pete Wentz was out, and Pete Wentz was angry. When he was approached, he ignored them. Then there was the mention of his nudes, which had been leaked over the internet. The assumption that he had done it for attention had him seeing red. The next thing he knew, the man with the camera was on the ground, and his knuckles were bruising. He left.

 

Parking lots were calm at night. No one cared who you were or what you were doing in your car, especially if they were just closing the local electronic superstore for minimum wage. Pete was safe. Away from the cameras, the band, everything. Alone with himself and his thoughts. Still, he didn’t feel alone. He wasn’t sure if he ever would. He dialed Patrick’s number.

When they found him, he was unconscious, an empty pill bottle in his hand. He died for two minutes in the hospital, and the media was having a heyday about it.

The band made him miss their tour. It was too dangerous and they couldn’t watch him every second of the day like you’re supposed to when someone tries to OD on pills that they shouldn’t even have. Worst of all, though, Patrick was pissed at him. He could usually deal with an angry Patrick, just let him throw a few punches and he’d cool off. It was different this time. He kept talking to Pete as if he were walking on eggshells. He was being cautious, too cautious. Guarded. Pete didn’t want or need a guarded Patrick. A guarded Patrick meant a lost Pete. He didn’t think too hard on what that meant.

It took weeks, but it felt like years. Finally, Pete started to see bits and pieces of his old friend again. They could joke again and be honest with each other. That was the main thing for Pete. He couldn’t be honest without his lyrics, and those were something sacred that only Patrick could see. That was where Pete could confess and Patrick could collect his misdoings, turn them into hymns and sing them to the congregation. If Pete used less metaphors in his writing, he could say Patrick was his religion. Instead, he wrote a ballad for him. It was close enough anyways.

They hardly took a pause after that, touring a few weeks after Pete left the hospital. Shows were rapid fire to Pete, seeming to be an endless stream bracketed by sleepless nights listening to the breathing of his bandmates. The time on stage, he felt alive, like electricity was flowing through his veins, lightning in his bones. He felt unstoppable. The moments on stage felt more real as well. The times he’d press up close to Patrick, singing his own lyrics into his ear, they felt more real, like they held more meaning. Maybe it was the roar of the crowd, maybe it was the pounding of his heart in time with the drums.

 

Pete didn’t miss the looks he got from Joe, had been getting for years. He just didn’t know what they meant. The first time he caught Joe staring, he’d thought there was something on his face. When Joe’s eyes not-so-subtly flicked to his lips, he’d assumed there was something there. The laugh he got when he tried to wipe at whatever it was alerted him that maybe it was something else. Pete didn’t understand. Joe never brought it up. 

He’d caught his stares quite a few more times when they were touring for _Infinity On High_ , which was a shock considering how infrequently Pete had received them. Maybe he wasn’t looking hard enough. Oddly enough, they seemed to happen more when Joe was talking with Patrick, who would give a knowing smile. Pete was still confused. No one explained it to him. Instead, he assumed it was some inside joke between the two. 

Pete would be a liar if he said he hadn’t kissed Joe before. They’d known each other for years, and when Pete was totally wasted on the last night of the tour, no one questioned why his lips had to have met Joe’s. It was a party after all, and Pete was known for his drunk kisses between friends. That still didn’t explain why Joe was avoiding him for days after. 

 

 _Folie A Deux_ was arguably the hardest album Pete had ever worked on, and by then he’d worked on too many to count, including Panic!’s and a few other bands signed to his record label. Those were easier because they weren’t his band. He wasn’t instrumental to the creation of the record. For _Folie_ , he was. Or, he was supposed to be. It seemed as time went on, there was less of a collaboration and more of a struggle for power. 

One day in the studio, they broke out into an argument. It usually happened with their band, had been happening since before their first real album. Usually, if Patrick were really angry, he’d punch Pete and get it over with. Joe and Andy might intervene. Neither of these happened. Joe and Andy had given up on trying to be part of the creative process. They came in to learn their parts and record them. Patrick would sometimes sneak in and overwrite their parts by himself. It pissed Pete off. So much so, that this very argument broke out.

“You always have to have it your way, right? Because none of us can ever do it exactly as you want!” Pete had recklessly thrown his bass to the side, something his former self would never have done. This new Pete had plenty of basses to spare, what was one? 

“ _I_ always have to have it my way? _Me?_ ” Patrick shook his head and dug a finger into Pete’s chest. “ _You’re_ the one who tries to make this whole thing the Pete Wentz Show!” The venom behind Patrick’s words made Pete’s blood turn to ice.

“You never wanted to be in the spotlight! You wanted to hide behind the drum kit! You wanted me to cover for you! I was the one in front of the cameras because _you didn’t want to_.” Pete crossed his arms, covering the places where Patrick knew his punches could knock the wind out of Pete. 

“And who says it has anything to do with being on stage? You… You’re so blind!” Patrick gripped at his own hair. “You don’t fucking _know_ how blind you are! And it’s funny because you don’t even question the consequences of your actions, you know?”

Pete furrowed his eyebrows. “What the fuck are you on about? You’re going over Andy’s drum tracks and Joe’s guitar as if they aren’t even part of the band!” 

Patrick looked at Pete in disbelief. “You really think I’m talking about the band, don’t you?” He laughed, a cold and sad laugh. “Never mind. Do what you want. You win.” 

Pete knew he set out to right those few wrongs, but something in him told him that whatever Patrick gave it up for was probably way more important than a few parts of a song.

 

The band took an indefinite hiatus. They needed the break. From each other, from the crowds who came out just to boo them offstage, from it all. Pete shaved his head on stage and left with a middle finger raised. 

He was pushed into his (separate) dressing room by the last person he expected.

“Andy?”

The drummer was sweaty, shirtless, and crying. He clung onto Pete tightly, quiet sobs filling the room. He hadn’t took into account how much the band had meant to Andy. He hadn’t took much into account at all, really. 

“I-I’m sorry.” Pete held him tightly, pressing his face to the drummer’s hair. It was soft, long. He knew that Andy hated how long it was getting, but he also knew Andy’s fear of change. They’d known each other longer than anyone else in the band. It all felt too real.

“Pete…” Andy croaked out. “It’s over… We…” He held on tighter, and Pete let his wall finally crack, just a little bit. 

“I know.”

 

Pete and Andy moved in together. No one seemed to care about them anymore. The press didn’t harass Pete anymore. Andy stayed in most of the time, working in their home gym or learning new vegan recipes. Things got very domestic for them, and it was good, for a change. Pete would make dinner, Andy would make breakfast, and they’d make lunch together. This was their norm. Pete kept running a record label, Andy volunteered at a few local shelters. They tried to put more good in the world, even if it was just locally. 

 

It was weird to Pete that Patrick was the one to call about getting the band back together. Patrick had _Soul Punk_ , and Pete had only barely kept up with it. He knew not everyone took too well to the sudden sound change, he knew Patrick’s audience was smaller. He didn’t know that he was being booed off stage every night, just like _Folie_. He didn’t know that Patrick was being told things about his weight, again.

They got the band back together on one condition. No one was being looked over or treated as if they are more important than another member. Too much of that had happened before. They all agreed on these facts, and Fall Out Boy was reestablished, better than ever. 

Shocking to them, _Save Rock And Roll_ was a smash hit. Every single song was a fan-favorite. All of their effort in making the _Young Blood Chronicles_ paid off. They received millions of views. They kicked off a tour with Panic!, then another with Paramore. They felt better than ever. Pete felt like nothing could top these moments, nothing could bring them down. 

Once touring for _Save Rock And Roll_ was over, they got to work on _American Beauty American Psycho_. The album wasn’t as big of a hit as Save Rock And Roll, but it didn’t do poorly. People still enjoyed their music, came to their shows, bought their merchandise. Their songs were still played on the radio and enjoyed by millions. People met them on their Boyz of Zummer tour, Wintour, and Bloom. They’d told the crowd that they were slowing down, needed to cool off before doing anything big again. At first they were met with disappointment, then understanding. Some of the long-term fans brought up the hiatus and many different ways of saying history could repeat itself, but it won't. It didn’t.

 

The second time Pete Wentz died, it was quietly, but surrounded by those he loved.

He’d come back to his luxury home with Andy, unsurprised to find Patrick and Joe there as well, quietly talking about something Pete couldn’t quite make out. They stopped when he entered the living room, smiling at him. Something was going on, and by the looks of it, Pete wasn’t supposed to know. 

Which meant Pete _had_ to know.

“So what’s going on? Planning on writing a new album without me?” Pete cracked a small joke, sitting on the arm of one of the chairs within the living room.

Patrick snorted and rolled his eyes, “As if my lyrics are able to fit the Fall Out Boy brand.” He shook his head and crossed a leg. “Nah, we were just making plans for dinner. We hoped you would come with.” 

Pete couldn’t help but notice Patrick was glowing. Something in the back of his mind reminded him of halos and church plays. 

“Hello? Earth to Pete?” This time it was Joe, “Is anyone home?” Joe’s hair was beautiful. Curly as usual, but it gave him an aura, especially when the light hit it and everything turned golden.

“What? Yeah, I’m good, I’m great.” He ran a hand down his face. He didn’t know what was happening to him.

“Good,” This time it was Andy, “because I’m starving. Get some fancy clothes on, Pete. You don’t want to be the one under-dressed.” 

Pete could see Andy’s muscles, even through the button-up shirt he was wearing, and Pete swore he was sweating. He nodded and hurried to his room to get ready. Once his door was locked, he sighed. Why was he just now realizing how hot his band mates were?

He hurriedly got dressed as best he could, barely able to scrape together a good outfit. He rushed back out, fixing his hair as he entered the living room again. “Dinner?”

They took him to some vegan place where the fake meat actually could be mistaken for low quality market meat. Andy still avoided the fake meat because of the “ideology behind it” but no one cared to argue. 

They were ordering their meals when a hand skimmed up Pete’s thigh, causing him to stutter when ordering his pasta. Patrick’s giggle was heard from just beside him, and Pete knew his face was turning a bright shade of pink. When the waiter left, Joe picked up their conversation, but no one expected Pete to respond. They _knew_ what was going on. Pete wanted to die right on the spot. He didn’t.

When they returned home from the restaurant, there was a mood to the air that Pete couldn’t read. It was as if Joe, Andy, and Patrick had some sort of mental connection that Pete just couldn’t be a part of. It felt kind of isolating, and Pete felt like he was intruding on something. 

The second time Pete Wentz died, it was because of a kiss. 

Suddenly, after looks were exchanged between the three, Patrick pressed his lips to Pete’s. Pete felt his soul ascend, and he could have sworn it was the hospital all over again and he was dead, outside of his body. When Patrick’s teeth skimmed over his bottom lip, he was grounded yet again, slammed back into his body and everything was _real_. 

All too soon Patrick’s lips were pulling away and it was too quickly, Pete wasn’t ready to let go he… he could feel two other sets of lips kissing his cheeks, and when he opened his eyes, he had three beautiful men holding hands in front of him, hopeful expressions on their faces. 

Patrick spoke, “You really are blind, huh?” He gave a tiny smile.

And yes, Pete Wentz did die more than twice. There were plenty of little deaths shared that night, even. With every death that came to pass, Pete was there, with the three loves of his life. It couldn’t get any better than that.

**Author's Note:**

> The little death or _le petit mort_ is french slang for orgasm. You’re welcome.


End file.
